The Lords of Arden (28 page)

 ‘My lord,’ Richard blurted out, ‘he's
blackmailing you. He's had an eye on me these last three years, ready to use me
against you when the time came. Promise him nothing!’

 ‘Richard happens to be right but
blackmail is an ugly word. Shall we say that your son in my hands may help you
to make me a gift of certain engines of war, at present in your possession? Go home
and think about it, Peter. Richard is safe until I have an answer from you. After
that I can make no promises; the pressure may need to be applied.’

 Montfort looked weary; he put a hand on
Richard's shoulder. ‘Courage, lad, I'll have you out of here.’

 ‘Not his way,’ muttered Richard. ‘Don't
do anything; I have a plan. I'll join you at Beaudesert.’

 Peter turned abruptly, John at his back,
and strode from the room; they heard his retinue ride away across the bailey
and into the distance. Warwick turned to Richard. ‘If you give me your parole
you can go back to the fletchers' quarters; I imagine you are finding captivity
irksome.’

 Richard shook his head. ‘I'll make no
bargains with you, My Lord. How you dispose of me is your affair and on your
conscience.’

 ‘Meaning that you intend to seize any
opportunity offered to part company with us? I don't advise it and, if you try,
I shall see you suffer for it.’

 ‘As my brother suffered at your hands?’
flashed Richard.

 ‘Ah, Bastard John; you heard about that. Did
Nicholas tell you? Of course, he would. The courtyard at night, a tableau
vivant with son et lumiere, but that would appeal to you, wouldn't it,
Sebastian, that pure sense of theatre. But I could not indulge you. Thwart me
and your wages will be far more basic and eminently fitted to your youth. Don't
scowl, it doesn't suit you. Do you have all you need in your ivory tower?’

 ‘It matters little for I'll ask for
nothing!’ retorted the boy, nettled by his earlier threats. ‘You play cat and
mouse!’

 ‘Perhaps, but what irks you is the fact
that I never even needed to bait the trap, you walked in of your own free will,
trusting as a new born babe. What do you think of your father?’

 ‘Is he my father?’

 ‘Yes, I can promise you that.’

 ‘Perhaps he will lay claims, force
ownership upon me - I don't think I can exchange one prison for another.’

 ‘You don't have a choice; you've opened
Pandora's Box. When I relinquish the rights of overlord, Peter de Montfort will
move in with a father's rights and, independent soul that you are, you have
much to learn about the ways of courts and kings - even a bastard son has
obligations.’

 ‘I think it gives you pleasure to taunt
me, My Lord. Summon my gaoler if you will and let me be out of your sight!’ And,
surprisingly, Warwick did as he bade him, leaving him with a curt 'goodnight'. Two
of the earl's archers closed in, one on each side; he was taking no chances.

~o0o~

They met upstream from the mill where the
cells of the Holy Men pitted the sandstone cliff like coney burrows and had
proved sanctuary for many a hermit. Their most famous tenant had been Guy of
Warwick himself, the legendary slayer of the Dun Cow, knight and pilgrim and
lover, who had ended his days here. Now there was nothing; a deserted chapel, a
warren of caves, home of rabbit and raven, and a colony of bats.

 Thomas Beauchamp and John de Montfort
arrived separately, to tether their horses in the nearest cavern, both were
unattended, both plainly dressed, anonymously cloaked against the chill wind. They
walked the overgrown path beside the river in the shelter of the cliff.

 ‘My price,’ said Warwick, ‘remains the
same whoever is doing the asking. Perhaps I should take your father's offer, a
simple exchange - the engines of war for one bastard son - living. So much
easier than covering up a death, an undeserved one at that.’

 John shrugged. ‘What's one boy more or
less off the face of this earth? In a year or two he might perish in battle,
waste away of the winter cough, who knows?’

 ‘That is in the lap of the gods, not in
my gift. And how will you square with your father over this? You, the first
born, the dearly beloved; Cain slaying Abel.’

 ‘He never needs to know. The boy was
making tracks home; he lost his way and was set upon by lawless men. It
happens.’

 ‘And suppose, our bargain completed, I
let fall your part in it to your father?’

 John smiled, sure of himself. ‘Would he
believe you, after all these years of feuding and enmity? Your word against his
own son! I doubt it. What is it to you, My Lord, who hands over the goods; you
will have what you want.’

 Warwick ceased his perambulation and
turned towards him deliberately. ‘If Peter de Montfort delivers the engine by
his own hand or that of one of his officers he shall take Richard de Montfort
live away with him. If it is delivered by your hand then Peter Montfort will
lose a son, my oath upon it.’ He held out a gauntleted hand and smiled, a
glittering rictus of a smile, and John felt a cold sliver of fear slide down
his spine. For a moment, he left the hand there, suspended in air, whilst his
violet eyes searched the dark face for treachery, then he too smiled and
extended his own hand.

 ‘Give me a few days, a week at the
outside. That is all I shall require.’ He bowed low, spun on his heels and
strode away along the river path. Beauchamp heard the beat of his horse's
hooves fade away into the winter evening but it was a long time before he
sought his own mount and returned to Warwick, eminently satisfied with life. The
night had closed in; the trap was sprung.

Richard de Montfort chose the next evening
to affect his escape. He was allowed half an hour's exercise at sunset, a
perambulation along the allure stretching from the Bear Tower to the Gatehouse.
He was accompanied by an archer who, though allowing him to walk alone, watched
him eagle-eyed. Any attempt at flight could ensure an arrow in the back and,
beside, he would still have had to get through the main gate unless…

 Tonight, the sunset, crimson and gold,
flamed in the feathered ripples of the Avon, flowing on, wine-dark, beneath the
old bridge. The forest land, bare now, but in places still too deep for the
rose-glow's penetration, had a dark mystery of its own, closing in about the
fortress as the dying eye of the sun disappeared from sight.

 Richard wore his old, darned mulberry
cote and hose and no cloak. The way he was going it would have been an
impediment. He stood shivering in the biting east wind, measuring the distance
between the allure and the nearest flight of stone steps which would take him
down into the courtyard, waiting until he had his courage screwed up to take
flight, to turn his back on the deadly arrow.

 A figure moved out onto the wall-walk
ahead of him, a young girl in a dark green surcote over a light kirtle. She
held her skirts bunched in one hand so that her little green slippers peeped
out from below the hem. She wore no veil and the hair which cascaded below her
filet was an autumnal dark red. Montfort recognised the child on the pony, the
girl who had said she was to marry Nicholas Durvassal. She was not as young as
he had thought but still only about fourteen years old. Rose Brandstone had
come to Warwick in the weeks before her marriage to serve as one of Kate’s
demoiselles or, more likely, for an eye to be kept on the girl; she was known
not to favour the proposed marriage. He made her a bow. His gaoler stiffened
but what was he to do? This girl was a lady, he could not shoo her away as if
she were a naughty little page. He kept a weather ear open and moved a little
nearer.

 ‘So this is the fearsome prisoner of the Bear Tower,’ mocked the Lady Rose, casting a glance at the archer and lifting her brows. Her
eyes were the bluest of blue, the colour of every field speedwell before the
midday sun fades sky to watchet. She swung herself up between two merlons, her
back to the darkening heavens. ‘I am to be married tomorrow, married past
redemption.’ She smoothed her skirts about her, set her head on one side and
eyed Richard coquettishly.

 ‘To Nicholas?’

 The freckled nose wrinkled and she
nodded. ‘I have a new gown of silver brocade, and Nicholas has bought me a
white palfrey to ride away with him to Spernall after the ceremony. I shall
have a saddle cloth of silver with ribbons and bells and white silk roses for
my hair; white blossoms for Rose-Red. It’s all so ridiculous! Nicholas detests
me. He will shut me away in his precious manor house and I shall stand at my
window and watch him ride away as the Lily Maid must have gazed after Sir
Lancelot.’

 Richard smiled at her. ‘Nicholas has been
spoilt. I imagine he'll mellow.’

 Rose twisted a glowing tendril of hair
about her fingers. ‘You'll be leaving here soon. Oh, there's so much for a man
to see and do: ships on the tide, sailing for the east to return with pigeon's
egg rubies, silver tissue, bales of silk shot with rainbow colours, veils
shimmering with starlight, coffers full of gleaming bezants, necklaces of
ivory…’ he was still smiling but his mind was racing on, far away from her. The
sentry was bored and cold.

 Richard said, ‘I must go back to my
prison and you should be at supper. Let me help you down.’ He put up his arms,
clasping her about her tiny waist. The red hair fell forward and whipped about
his face. He said, ‘Lady, for what I am about to do, forgive me,’ swung her
down, whisked her in front of him, his arms tight about her, and was already
backing his way along the allure towards the steps. He shouted out to the
sentry, ‘When I get down to the courtyard, I'll release her. Loose a shaft at
her and you slay Nicholas Durvassal's bride! I should think twice about it if I
were you.’

 Rose was pummelling at his arms; he was
crushing her rib-cage. She kicked backwards at him with the slippered feet but
her cries were muted and when they reached the steps and he had to descend
sideways, manoeuvring her with difficulty, she allowed herself to go limp as if
all the fight were out of her. Montfort backed away across the courtyard,
suddenly loosed her and thrust her aside, turned and ran for the shadows. Then
the arrows did come but he had reached the empty shell of the new Caesar Tower. In the inky darkness at its base he sorted about until, amongst the mason's
blocks and pulleys he found a stout length of rope. He coiled it about his
shoulders and entered the lower floor. The blackness was almost total; the
window let little light into the room. Richard picked his way carefully amongst
the mason's rubble, making for the small white square, and suddenly it was
blotted out and he became aware of another's breathing, yards away.

 ‘Richard Montfort, is it you? You are
expected. We've been waiting, Nicholas or I. I'm glad you haven't disappointed
us. No, I wouldn't disappear the way you came; the hue and cry is up.’

 Richard, recognising the voice, knew that
William Lucy could not possibly see him or know that he had the coil of rope. He
kept silent, working in a half circle away from the voice but still towards the
window, uncoiling his rope.

 ‘Out of my way, man, I'm armed!’

 ‘Oh, I doubt that, boy!’

 Richard payed out his rope, swinging the
tail of it in increasing circles in a trick he'd learnt of Arthur Chigwell down
on the wharves. He judged his opponent’s position and, without warning, struck.

 The rope whipped round Lucy's legs,
tightened and, with a jerk, he was over. Richard tossed the coil after him and
sprang up onto the sill of the tiny window, thrusting his shoulders through the
aperture. The Lord of Charlecote, winded, was struggling to his feet. ‘You
fool, make that jump and you'll break every bone in your body! It's too far and
the blocks for the third story are just below. You'll never get to the river!’

 But the warnings fell on deaf ears. Montfort
hung for a moment from the stone coping, jumped down onto the outward sloping
foundations of the massive stone tower, wavered precariously, recovered his
balance and slithered down towards the water's edge. There was no time to
waste, he ran down to the river and plunged in, swimming strongly. He was
minutes in the icy water when the baying of the hounds started up on the far
bank, following the river's course downstream. It would be impossible to escape
that way. He turned back towards the weir and, yards away from the edge of the
foam he crossed to the other bank. There were no sounds above the creaming
threshing waters. He hauled himself upon the banks of the ait, aware that
sooner or later the dogs would pick up his scent. Crossing the river again on
the far side of the island he was in the Earl's chase. The leaves, thickly
spread, made a soft carpet but not a silent one. He leant his back against the
trunk of a giant oak, listening. But all he could hear was his own harsh
breathing, one with the painful heaving of his own breast. He struck off again,
seeking the thickest shelter.

 It was Nicholas, with the perception of a
cat, who first caught the glimpse of a moving shadow. It was Nicholas who knew
the terrain. Fleet of foot he was in pursuit but it was hard to move silently
amongst the sad remains of the autumn's harvest of bracken, and Montfort
whirled round to face his opponent. One shout would bring the dogs down upon
them. Nicholas did not speak, this was his quarry, he was moving forward by
inches and Montfort could not tell whether he was armed. Possibly he had been
at supper when the alarm was raised; he would never have had time to fasten his
baldric but he would be carrying a knife. The younger man sprang, he flung
himself upon Durvassal and wrested the weapon in a coup which even Arthur would
have admired. The knife plunged into a tangled thicket of rose briars and
bramble vines and the two went down together, struggling to recapture it. Even
then, Nicholas could have called out and had a dozen men to aid him but he
could not consider defeat and took a savage pride in his own physical fitness. Had
he not trained under England's great soldier-earl? Every muscle was keyed to
react to the messages of a coolly calculating brain. His opponent was
gutter-bred. Oh, he did well enough with the long bow, Nicholas grudgingly
remembered. But the arts of chivalry! His type wielded a sword like a meat-axe
and he could never have mounted a good piece of horse-flesh in his life.

 Nicholas had discounted the most
important fact of all, Richard was desperate. If he won this bout he would be
hunted across the shire, relentlessly, with slim chance of making the marches
of his father's lands; if he lost it was back to imprisonment and who knew what
besides. Richard used every hook and hold he had ever used in the wildest of
the London riots and Nicholas was surprised at his young opponent's strength. Over
and over in the bracken and leaves they wrestled, both so completely unaware
that they were gradually being ringed about by Warwick's archers and that the
Earl himself, immaculate in black and gold, was advancing. The archers parted
to let him through. Beauchamp snapped his fingers.

 ‘Enough, Nicholas! Richard, you fight
like a sewer rat. Take him!’ He turned to Durvassal who was attempting to dust
himself down. ‘Why were you fool enough to leave yourself open to such an
attack?’

 Durvassal's handsome face was sullen
before the Earl's chiding, like a small page caught scrumping in the Abbot's
orchard. Warwick waved an arm in Montfort's direction. ‘Back to the fold with
him; we'll follow on.’

 The courtyard was aglow with torchlight
as they passed under the gatehouse arch. But despite the brightness Richard
felt chilled to the marrow of his bones. His wet cote hung upon him, smelling
of river weed and leaf mould. His hair curled upon his forehead, damp and dank.
He saw William Lucy regarding him with amusement rather than enmity and Lady A,
richly cloaked, was standing in the shadows with Katherine's damsels clustered
about her, all chattering with excitement. The hall had been abandoned, food
still on the tables. Richard was too angry with himself at his botched attempt
to feel hungry. He was jostled through the hall towards the solar steps and
prodded into the firelit room.

 The cressets were lit, the shutters
fastened against the winter wind. He was alone with Beauchamp and Durvassal and
this time there would be no escape. Warwick was ignoring him. He faced his
squire and motioned for the young man to disarm him, to remove his spurs and
gauntlets and help him out of his surcote. His jupon was of unrelieved black. Together
with the dark hose and long riding boots it gave him a lean, satanic look. His
shadow was a giant upon the walls.

 ‘What are we to do with you, Richard?’ The
words were those of an exasperated elder talking to a small child.

 Montfort was on his guard but he said,
‘You have no right to hold me prisoner!’

 ‘And what other way can I hold you? You
had the whole castle by the ears tonight, perhaps you found that amusing. You
winded Will Lucy and what I cannot countenance is your use of the Lady Rose as
a counter in your escape. That was a despicable act from any man. I would have
thought better of you.’

 ‘Desperate diseases require desperate
remedies.’ But a flush of shame had crept unwillingly into the boy's face. He
was not quite old enough to take the criticisms of his elders and toss them
aside unperturbed.

 ‘Desperate remedies,’ mused Warwick. ‘The man who let you escape has been flogged.’

 That did bring fire to the dark eyes. ‘What
else could he have done, seeing I had the girl as a shield? Visit your spleen
on me, My Lord, if you must!’

 ‘I have said before, I want you whole for
as long as it suits my purpose. Others can be proxy and suffer for your
misdemeanours. Next time a man will hang. Will you care to put it to the test?’

 Nicholas laughed, ‘Well said, My Lord, he
is too lily-livered to want a man's death on his conscience. You have him
there!’ He was the old Nicholas again, in spite of the mud spatters on his
hose, the button wrenched from the figure-hugging scarlet jupon. Even the
silver-gilt hair had swung back into place about the narrow face. Richard was
soaked through, dirty, stiff and cold. He had nothing to lose. He launched
himself at Durvassal and the young man, taken off guard, was forced to defend
himself.

 Warwick stood back. They had a fine
hatred between them which had been nurtured over the ten years since, in the
shadow of Nottingham Castle, Durvassal had picked upon a small boy and called
him a thief. Let them knock hell out of each other, the exercise would do
Nicholas good, shake him out of his usual indolence. Montfort had been cooped
up too long. Let them fight it out and finish what was begun in the woods. But
Nicholas, when all was said, fought by the rules, in the same way that he would
have jousted by them and waged battle by them. Richard wrestled - no holds
barred, but when he caught Durvassal with a wicked low punch that doubled him
up, Warwick surged into action, tore them apart and sent Montfort across the
room with a blow to the chin that sent him crashing across the table, three
parts unconscious.